Twelve Year Old Scotch
by HotlipsPierce
Summary: Alcoholics will always be addicts. If they never take another drink as long as they live it's because they haven't lived long enough. Well, Cuddy, I am an addict, and you are twelve-year-old scotch. Post ep for 4x12 "Don't Ever Change."


_Twelve-Year-Old Scotch_

By HotlipsPierce

**Warning: Fluff-tastic.**

**Disclaimer[Witty remark about how while Greg House owns my soul, I don't own his HERE.**

The dissonant sound of wood striking wood distracted Lisa Cuddy from the book in which she had been engrossed. She didn't have to peer through the peephole to know who was on the other side of her front door; there was only one person in her life with a knock like that, when he bothered to knock at all. Swinging the door open, she watched in bemusement as Gregory House straightened to his full height and declared, "Twelve-year-old scotch."

"Don't have any. Night, House." Cuddy was prevented from the slamming the door in his face when a be-flamed cane was hoisted between them.

"Would you let me finish my metaphor?" She studied House carefully for a few moments before deciding he could do no real harm. With a nod, she stepped aside as he hobbled past her and into her living room. When she joined him in there, Cuddy found her Head of Diagnostics staring meaningfully into her fireplace. Never looking at her, he bounced his cane twice and began to pace. "Alcoholics will always be addicts. If they never take another drink for as long as they live it's because they haven't lived long enough. Well, Cuddy, I am an addict, and you," he said, finally confident enough to turn and meet her gaze, "You are twelve-year-old scotch."

"Come again?"

Rolling his eyes at her inability to follow his train of thought, he took a deep breath and clarified, "One time, a long, long time ago, I was addicted to…you. I know that, you know that, and there's no need to drudge all that up. And after a while, I put myself through a rehab called Stacy and assumed that I had, to quote a horrible cliché, 'quit you.' But I haven't, because people don't change. I haven't changed."

If he had decided at that moment to fling a feather at her, he would have succeeded in knocking her to the ground; such was Cuddy's countenance following House's confession. She was lost in her shock for a while before realizing that he was looking at her expectantly. Gingerly sitting herself upon her couch, she quietly began, "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why are you telling me this?" Suddenly her voice came back to her with a vengeance. "Why now? What's going on? Is it Wilson and Amber? Is this some competition to see who can date the bigger bitch? Why scotch?" Flailing madly, she was now on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Why in the world had she assumed that he couldn't hurt her?

"Which question do you want me to answer?"

"All of them, preferably."

"Scotch gets better with age."

"So does wine."

"But scotch is cooler. Wine is so…boring. Scotch is sultry. Scotch is voluptuous. Scotch is…sexy."

"Oh." Cuddy's outer appearance began to calm, but her innards were doing cartwheels, and her heart was now pumping to the tune of "It's the End of the World as We Know It."

"And it does have to do with Wilson and Amber."

"Hmm…?" She had been so focused on trying to remember what came after "Leonard Bernstein!" that she'd forgotten he was telling her something very important. And he was also sitting next to her now. When had that happened?

"Bit…Amber told me that all her life she'd had to choose between love and respect and that with Wilson she could have both. That made me think. If I had ever been with Cameron, I know that she would have respected me, but she would never have loved me, really. She's like Wilson in a lot of ways – she loves the neediness. Stacy, on the other hand, did love me. I know that. There were times, though," House paused, looking pointedly at his cane, "that I don't think she really respected me and my judgment, for better or for worse. And then there's you. We've known each other for twenty years, and yet we still willingly put up with each other. You trust me with your secrets. You listen to my rants. You care about my well-being. You hired me. You haven't fired me. You respect me _and_ you lo…care about me. It's nice."

For the second time that evening, Lisa Cuddy could think of nothing more profound to say than, "Oh." However, after two interminable minutes of thinking and being vaguely aware of House's self-esteem crashing just to her right, she became aware of what she had to say. "House, I do care about you. And, I'm very flattered that you trust me as deeply as you do, but we can't. We can't be as we used to be. I'm sor -"

"I just need a friend, all right?" House snapped.

"You have - "

"Oh, really? You think Cutthroat Bitch is going to let her little James skip out on dinner with company to placate me like Julie did? You think she's going to just merely roll her eyes when he calls to say that House needs help, and so he can't be home until ten o'clock like Bonnie did? In case you haven't figured it out, Cuddy, the answer is definitely 'Hell No.' And I'm being okay with this, if only because if I conspicuously push them apart, Wilson will never speak to me again."

His tirade was cut short by two slender arms swiftly capturing him in a hug. "I was just going to say that you have me as a friend. I get it," she whispered into his chest.

Now it was House's turn to softly respond, "Oh." Hesitantly, his arms came around her as he silently reveled in this closeness. A closeness he hadn't felt with her in years. He was right; this had gotten better with age.

Too soon, she raised her head. "You want something to drink?"

"Sure you don't have any scotch?"


End file.
